


No Greater Love

by Wildcard



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-11
Updated: 2013-08-11
Packaged: 2017-12-23 03:34:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/921514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wildcard/pseuds/Wildcard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dave and Rose are about to meet royalty. They're not going to survive but they have to get dressed up well anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Greater Love

“Put on your best smile, Dave,” Rose instructs him sardonically, “After all, we’re about to meet royalty.”

Her black gown’s surprisingly simple. It looks like the sort of clothing she wore as a child, just plain black jersey knit with a purple cincher. She’s worn concoctions of lace and froth to the Oscars, walked arm-in-arm with Dirk with the regal grace of a queen but now she garbs herself in a black dress as simple as a funeral shroud.

Maybe it’s just Rose’s pragmatism coming into play. Who knows if anyone’s going to bury them? If there’ll even be enough of them left to bury. Makes sense she’d wear what she wants to be buried in. If their bodies are just left to rot, whatever she’s wearing is her burial dress.

Fuck. They’re heading to their deaths and Rose has managed to show him up yet again. Escorting Rose anywhere is a hazardous proposition. She attracts attention with her disdain for the media the way that cat-haters attract cats. It doesn’t matter what she wears or doesn’t wear; she’s earned column inches and the fury of the press just by refusing to turn up somewhere.

Maybe it’s because she looks so prim and proper. Everyone expects a little rebellion from Dave Strider, movie director and enfante terrible, but Ms. Rose Lalonde? She’s an author. She’s supposed to be cultured and clever and actually show up to important events she’s promised to be at.

Dave’s the only one who knows she missed the charity auction’s opening because she was busy riding a motorbike through the city, barely staying ahead of the Batterwitch’s goons, skirt hiked up around her thighs and her scarf fluttering in the wind. There were photos of the bare-legged lady on the motorbike who rode like a stuntswoman in the papers tomorrow but nobody associated that hoyden with Rose.

Anyone who got to meet that side of Rose very shortly afterwards met their death.

Except Dave. He’s her special exception. It’s why she’s fixing his tie right now, straightening the knot and tugging the slim end to make the tie lie perfectly.

In another world, they’d be siblings that grew up together. Rose would borrow clothes from Dave’s wardrobe and knit him deliberately hideous scarves in the winter. Dave would threaten anyone she dated, knowing full well that she could skewer them with her needles before he even decaptchalogued his sword. She’d help him with his homework and he’d drag her out clubbing. They’d be friends and they’d be siblings and they wouldn’t die so young that neither of them have a single grey hair yet.

“Dave,” She says again, cool, long fingers catching his chin and tugging to make him look down at her, “Are you paying attention?”

Shit. Rather than admit he was musing on their imminent demise, Dave fell back on snark. It was the mother tongue they’d both been born speaking.

“Got distracted by the Grand Canyon in your dress where your cleavage should be. Is that part of your plan? Make the Batterwitch feel such second-hand horror for you that she’s going to be too busy wondering about your lack of rumble spheres to attack. It is a masterly-fucking-plan, Rose, I commend you on your complete lack of shame and willingness to give up all semblance of dignity for the revolution.”

She snorts, yanking the tie with unnecessary force. “And people actually think that you are subtle.”

“Like a heart attack.”

“That’s meant to be serious as a heart attack,” She reprimands him lightly, her hands falling to her sides as she gives him a critical once over.

“Come on. When am I ever fucking serious?” Used to her scrutiny, he stays perfectly still as she sizes him up and finds him adequate, judging by her short, sharp nod of approval as she turns away.

“Oh, never. Perish the thought that going to certain doom would make Dave Strider actually take something seriously.” Her shoulderblades show sharply through the dress and the set of her shoulders is tense.

Dave is hugging her from behind before he knows it, arms around her waist and face pressed to her hair. “That’s what we’re doing? Shit, Rose, you gotta tell a guy things like this. I thought that this was just gonna be another chance for me to show how my strife skills are clearly superior to yours. I would’ve dressed better if I’d known I was going to die.”

She’s been warning him for over a year now that they’re doomed.

She relaxes into the hug anyway. 

In another world, they would’ve been raised together as siblings instead of finding each other as teens. In another world, hugs would've been commonplace. Dave would be the cool uncle to her kid, the one that always came with presents and that conspired with them to sneak around behind Rose's back. Rose would've been the authority figure to Dave's kid, the person that gave Dave's kid some structure in his life. They would've raised their kids together, an unconventional family that had all the necessary components to succeed anyway. They would've grown old together. Died together.

Dave doesn’t believe that there exists any world in which he could love her more than he does here.

**Author's Note:**

> Prompted by hoshi_ryo on dreamwidth for Bonus Round 1 of HSWC. The prompt was:
> 
> We're going to play the game again  
> For as long as it takes again  
> For something we don't really want at all  
> \-- Love and Rockets, The Game


End file.
